


The Anniversary

by MistressPandora



Series: Tartan Terror Chronicles [1]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Aid, Hunter!Jamie Fraser, Hurt/Comfort, Killing vampires with a broadsword, M/M, Not exactly platonic M/M cuddling, Pre-story major character death, Some blood and gore, Soulless!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: It has been ten years since Jamie's beloved wife Claire was killed by literal monsters. Ten years since he started down this path, ridding the world of vile darkness, once abomination at time. Ten years since, and Jamie's raid of a vampire nest gets interrupted by two brothers, hunters themselves.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp & Jamie Fraser, Jamie Fraser & Dean Winchester
Series: Tartan Terror Chronicles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687324
Comments: 24
Kudos: 24
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Outlander Bingo Challenge





	1. Forgive Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iihappydaysii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/gifts).



> When [iihappydaysii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/pseuds/iihappydaysii) asked for a Supernatural/Outlander crossover with Hunter!Jamie, how could I say no?
> 
> This is set circa 2011, falling in Supernatural's sixth season.
> 
> Chapter 1 fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo Square: **Survivor's Guilt**
> 
> The awesome mood board was created by [DriveableCar (AKA Beefsteakclub on Tumblr)](https://beefsteakclub.tumblr.com/), who was also kind enough to beta! Go give her some love!

The little page-a-day calendar on the international market’s check-out counter said it was the nineteenth of June. His heart stopped.

Ten years. Ten years to the day had passed since his wife had died and James Fraser hadn’t realized the bloody date. His heart started up again, rabbit fast and thunderous in his chest. He fought to keep his hand steady as he handed his monochromatic bills to the cashier. The memory of the  _ caoineag’s  _ wails echoed inside his skull. He nodded his thanks to the cashier as she handed him a red plastic sack containing his purchase. He clenched his fist tight around the handles to keep from dropping it.

Jamie shoved his trembling hand into the pocket of his blue jeans and dug out his keys. If he could just hold off the nauseating guilt and darkness closing on him until he got to his truck. It took two tries to get his key into the lock and turn it. He tossed the grocery sack onto the bench seat and leaned his back against the rear cab door. 

The memory overtook Jamie, dragged him under. He could smell Claire’s blood as it poured from her demolished throat. Felt the warmth of it on his arms as he held her. It stuck his shirt to his chest while her life ran out from those ghastly wounds. He jammed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as if he could expel the memory with brute strength.  _ Please, Christ, let her rest _ , he prayed.  _ Forgive me, Sassenach. I forgot the date, I dinna forget ye. _

It was no wonder he’d forgotten the date, he tried to tell himself. He’d hardly slept more than three hours a night for two weeks while he tracked this nest of vampires into the bowels of Mississippi. This international market in Jackson was his last stop on the way to some wee crossroads called Bear Creek. It was there that the unholy hellspawn had made their home. And it was there he would send them back to hell.

Jamie inhaled the acrid smell of hot asphalt and diesel exhaust. He pressed his hands into the searing grey metal of his truck until he thought his skin might sizzle like an egg in a pan. He latched his attention onto these things. He grounded himself in the harsh reality of the here and now until the odor of copper and terror faded back into the recesses of his mind. The exercise didn’t purge the memories, but slid them safely back behind a thin veil. He could think on the other side of that curtain, could drive the last thirty-odd miles from the other side of it. And when the time came, he would draw the gauzy partition aside and draw on the rage and terror and vengeance that lived there, forever crouched over Claire’s pale corpse.

* * *

It was a force of habit that led Jamie to shield his fire behind the little country boneyard. He hadn’t seen a single vehicle on the distant two-lane road for at least two hours since he pulled his truck off the pavement and four-wheeled it to a copse of trees. He dumped his pricey bag of saffron from the market into the mix of skunk cabbage and trillium on the fire.

Leaving it to smolder, Jamie returned to his truck and opened the dented chrome toolbox, hinges groaning. He had painted it with runes and sigils to ward off intruders of a preternatural persuasion. The padlocks dissuaded those of a more mortal nature. The truck was lifted, but Jamie was tall and could reach into the toolbox without difficulty. He removed a thick piece of folded wool, green and red tartan with thin white accent lines criss crossing at intervals. The great kilt had been singed in places, and smelled like fire, brimstone, and lanolin. But it was his link to Scotland and his home and to Claire. Mostly to Claire. He'd worn it on their wedding day, and it was at her insistence that he'd continued to wear it whenever he could.

Jamie cast an eye at his fire, checked that everything was proceeding according to plan. Kicking a few stray twigs from the grassy clearing, he unfurled his kilt, snapping it high and letting it fall to the grass in an enormous cascade sixty inches wide by nine yards long. Walking the perimeter, Jamie tugged the ends of the tartan straight and flat. Satisfied, he knelt at one narrow end, gave himself about 20 inches for the flat apron, and began folding meticulous pleats along the sett.

As he pleated his kilt, Jamie’s mind began to clear itself, to prepare for the coming fight. The ritual was soothing. His prayers were wordless, but he sent them up on each pleat. The first was always the same:  _ Pull, fold, smooth; Mon Dieu, je regrette. Pull, fold, smooth, Saint Bride. Pull, fold, smooth, Michael. Pull, fold, smoth, Murtagh.  _ Over and over as he felt moved. But the final three pleats were always the same prayer.  _ Pull, fold, smooth, Claire. Pull, fold, smooth,  _ mo nighean donn _. Pull, fold, smooth, Sassenach. _

Jamie stood carefully to avoid disrupting the pleats and unbuckled his belt, the worn leather slithering out of the loops of his jeans. Kneeling again, he slid the belt under the kilt, and eased himself onto the pleats. From there it was a couple of quick tugs to get the apron situated over him and his belt buckled around his waist. Jamie stood up and tucked the long ends of his plaid behind his back and shook out the fabric so it hung properly. Reaching under the front of his kilt, Jamie unfastened his blue jeans and shimmied out of them, pulling his boxer briefs down with them. He steadied himself against his truck to work the denim over his boots. Once free, he tossed the both garments through the open rear window of the pick-up, and fished his sporran from the toolbox, fastening it about his waist.

Jamie’s saffron mixture had burnt to ash. Scooping up warm handfuls, he rubbed it into his clothes, over his bare arms, in his hair. It would disguise his scent from the vampires, provided they weren’t too old and powerful. The fragrant ash was acrid in his nostrils, but Jamie had reason to believe that this nest was a large one and he’d take all the advantages he could come by. His fire smothered, Jamie climbed into his truck and brought the big diesel engine to life.

* * *

It was full dark when Jamie reached his target. He had already scouted out the nest on his drive out from Jackson. There was a spot off the road to park his truck, well hidden by the trees and cancerous kudzu, within an easy run of the house.

The rear windshield of Jamie’s truck sported a laden gun rack. It held two shotguns whose barrels were just inside the legal limit in  _ most  _ states, his .30-06 Springfield rifle, and his  _ claidheamh-mòr  _ with its wide leather belt. Leaning in through the back door, he removed the sword from its hooks and fastened the belt around his waist. The basket hilt sat at a comfortable angle on his right hip, easy to draw with his left hand, the broad leather scabbard angled behind him to keep the considerable length from the ground.

Jamie moved like a specter through the trees toward the dilapidated house. The moon was dark, the stars veiled with clouds, and the fireflies danced through the overgrown grass. Even this late, it was a sweltering night, the air thick with humidity and the hammering whine of cicadas. His mind was clear, his intent focused, clean. It would be a good fight. If tonight were the night that Jamie Fraser fell, he would take as many vampires with him as he could.  _ Wait for me, Sassenach. _

Jamie circled around to the carport--or rather, what had at one point been a carport but was now a pile of refuse with a collapsed roof. There were few windows on this side of the house, and Jamie drew his sword as he picked his way through the debris. He tried the doorknob and it turned.

Something yanked the door from his right hand with a sudden force that almost pulled him off balance. The face that appeared in the doorway might have passed for human to a casual, uninitiated observer. But Jamie was neither casual nor uninitiated. He recognized it at once with it’s angry sneer, the odd way it held its head to an unnatural angle. The smell of blood and corpses and evil surrounded it like a cloud.

Jamie leaned back and planted his boot in the creature’s stomach, kicking hard. The vampire’s face contorted as it displayed its mass of blood-stained fangs. It snarled and hissed with surprise and rage as it was thrown back. Jamie crossed the threshold and found himself with sufficient room to swing his  _ claidheamh-mòr  _ through the creature’s throat. The blade cleaved through skin and muscle, crunched through the delicate bones, flinging blood in a wide arc. It splattered luke warm and metallic on Jamie’s face. The vampire’s head tumbled to the grimey floor with a satisfying thud. That first kill made Jamie’s own blood run hot through his veins. It was lust he felt for the next swing of his sword. Hunger to plow through meat and bone and spray crimson in all directions. 

The nest had realized he was there. Screeches and howls rang through the dim house,

“Hunter!” they cried. So much for the element of surprise.

A feral grin pulled at Jamie’s lips as he readied his blade again. The house stank of garbage and corpses. “Come an’ meet yer reckoning, ye filthy hellspawn!” he bellowed.

They descended on him. More enraged howls, growing closer as the vampires tore through the house. Jamie drew his sword back for the next creature. He saw everything and nothing, felt only the desperate thirst for violence.


	2. Intruders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo Square: **Stitches  
> **  
>  It also fills my Outlander Bingo 2020 Square: **Touch Starved**

Dean Winchester parked his ‘67 impala behind a truck he didn’t recognize. It was massive, a gunmetal grey F-250 with dualies, a modest lift kit, and extended everything. The silhouette of shotguns on a gun rack was visible through the tinted rear windshield, and the beat up toolbox was covered in warding. Correctly-drawn warding, he noted. “Who the hell do you think that is?”

Sam shrugged, his empty eyes unfazed. Dean suppressed a shudder. It looked like his brother, but the empty shell next to him was most certainly not his brother.

“No clue,” Sam answered. “But I bet he’s overcompensating for something. And stupid. This is a huge nest.”

“Yeah, probably,” Dean agreed, climbing out of the car and circling to the trunk. He retrieved his favorite machete from his duffle bag, hefting it to feel the weight. 

“Well, let’s go mop up the poor bastard,” Sam said. “If he’s lucky, they killed him outright and we can add him to the pyre.”

Dean expected to find a house full of vamps, happily slurping up the last few drops of whoever owned that truck. But as they approached the dilapidated structure, they heard the unmistakable sounds of carnage and supernatural fury. He and Sam exchanged a surprised look and took off running to the house full-tilt, blades at the ready.

They charged up the front porch steps and Dean paused long enough to rear back and kick the door in. The wooden door frame splintered, the door flying open to reveal absolute pandemonium. Seven or eight vamps lined the otherwise bare room in a loose circle, waiting for an opening to attack the man in the center.

The man was tall, about as tall as Sam, with red hair pulled back into a tail at the nape of his neck but was coming loose and wild. He had exquisitely chiseled muscles on full display in a white tank top which was tucked into… a kilt? He wielded an impressive broadsword, carving a swath through the surrounding vampires with a grace and power that Dean had never seen before. And he did it left-handed.

Dean found himself insanely curious about this stunning warrior. _Stunning, as in surprising_ , he clarified to himself. “Who, or what, the hell is _that_?” he asked Sam.

Sam shrugged. “I bet that’s our asshole with the douche-canoe. Should we help?”

The vampires closest to the open door noticed Sam and Dean at last and whirled on them.

“Looks like we don’t have a choice,” Dean answered. He slashed his machete clean through a vampire’s neck as he lunged for his throat. Dean and Sam split the room in half, Dean moving left, Sam moving right.

Dean snuck up on the next vamp, decapitating her from behind before she had a chance to turn around. He stole a quick glance at the man in time to see him divest a snarling vamp of his head. It was freaking awesome. The sword sent blood spattering in all directions, warm droplets traveling as far away as Dean’s face. The man was a gorry sight, his torso and face smeared with blood and grime. From what Dean could tell in that quick appraisal, most of the blood wasn’t his. “Sweet kill,” Dean shouted over the din.

The man’s blue eyes flicked to Dean, then Sam, then scanned the room again, calculating and filled with rage. “Ye’re nay vampire,” he said, _R_ s rolling in a thick Scottish accent.

Dean ducked out of reach of a charging vamp, slid out of the way. He pivoted and slashed, his machete which _swooshed_ through empty air. “Yeah, you neither, Sean Connery.” He swung again, his blade colliding with the side of the vampire’s head and glancing off. It took off a chunk of scalp and skull but left the thing to howl in rage and pain. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Exterminating vermin,” the big guy answered. A vamp had closed in on him from behind, and before Dean could shout a warning he whirled. He seized her by the front of her shirt, flicked his wrist once to secure his grip, and slung her into two more vampires approaching from his two o’clock. All three landed in a heap that fractured the grubby drywall. At least one of their skulls cracked too, if the red smear behind him was any clue.

Dean took another swing at the vamp he’d brained, struck true, and the head fell to the ground with a thud. Without warning, the fight paused, the vamps sizing up the situation. The floor was littered with bodies and severed heads, at least half a dozen mismatched pairs. A quick glance over his shoulder told him Sam was unhurt.

The Scot’s gaze swept the room again, his sword ready but deceptively casual to his left side. He arched a ruddy brow at one large male who seemed on the verge of charging. “Ye can die facing me or running like a coward.” Sean Connery spread his arms wide, the tip of his broadsword scraping against the wall to his left. There was no way a vampire would get through his defenses and it looked damn awesome. “Makes nae difference to me. But ye will die tonight.”

_There’s no way this guy is overcompensating,_ Dean thought. In his peripheral vision, he noticed Sam sidling his way along the wall, getting into position to Connery’s right.

“I’ll rip your throat out, hunter,” the big vampire said.

The huge Scottish guy twitched his shoulders in something that might have been a shrug. “Aye, ge’ on wi’ it then, _mhac na galla_.”

And then it was chaos and fury once again. There was no order to the vampires’ charge now, it was a total melee. Dean lost track of Sam, but heard his grunt of effort. Every couple of minutes a severed head hit the floor with a squishy sort of thud. Dean grappled with a vamp that got past his reach. They deadlocked, and Dean resorted to jabbing his machete into the soft parts of her midsection. Blood and ichor poured from the enormous wounds, hot and reeking. She kept coming of course, screeching and howling in agony.

“Drop!” Sean Connery ordered, boots stomping as he closed in.

Dean obeyed, falling into a crouch. The vampire’s severed head hit him in the shoulders, throwing him off balance. He lurched to the side, throwing out his empty left hand to catch himself. Instead, Dean collided with the collapsing vampire corpse and sent it plowing into Connery’s kilted ass.

“Auch, shite,” the Scot swore, stumbling. As Dean dragged himself to his feet, the stranger let out a string of something in French.

The air stank of coppery blood and death. Dean brought his forearm in front of his face to block an attack, fangs ripping clean through his sleeve. He shoved the vamp away and followed up with a single-handed swing of his machete. Her head parted from her body and both crumpled, blood pouring from the empty shoulders.

“Dean!” Sam called, his voice strained with struggle.

His brother was pinned to a wall by two vamps who had him in a death grip. Sam had been fighting like a hyper-focused machine since he came back soulless, but he was still human.

The two vamps were too close to Sam for Dean to swing his machete. Dean fisted the collar of one and yanked him away from Sam.

“To me,” Connery barked, and Dean shoved the vamp toward him with all his might. The big guy swung his freaking broadsword-- _shit that was awesome_ \--like a colossal baseball bat and knocked the bastard’s head clean off his shoulders. That freed up Sam to get some space between himself and the last vamp. Dean hacked through his neck from behind.

The house was silent, save for their ragged breathing. The three of them exchanged glances with each other and surveyed the carnage. Nothing twitched. Good.

Dean bent forward and braced his hands on his knees, sucking in air and trying to catch his breath. He regretted it. The metallic funk of blood and sweat made his gorge rise and Dean gestured to the front door with an exhausted arm. It must’ve weighed sixty pounds. “Let’s go get the gas cans. And some air.”

Sam and the tall guy both nodded, exhausted, the latter wiping his sword clean on a corner of his kilt before sheathing it. Once outside, they trudged toward the road and the parked cars. Connery pulled a little flashlight from who-knew-where, probably that pouch thing hanging over his crotch. It was enough light to avoid falling on their faces and spoiling their dramatic walk away from the carnage.

They didn’t speak as they trekked back to the house, machetes traded in for gas cans. Nor as they doused the structure in gasoline and ignited it. In fact they stood watching the flames rise into the pitch sky for several minutes before they paid each other any deliberate attention.

Sam was okay, that much Dean could tell. Dean himself was sore-- _I have got to learn to limber up first_ \--but otherwise unharmed. The Scottish dude still wore his sword. Once he’d gotten over the initial shock of the red and green plaid, Dean had to admit the combination of kilt and broadsword on that ridiculously muscled and blood-spattered frame was all kinds of impressive. He’d managed to rip his white tank top, of course. _Connery or a Scottish Shatner?_ Dean couldn’t decide. The amber light from the soaring flames reflected off a deep gash in the stranger’s chest, gaping through the torn fabric.

“Hey, buddy, you’re pretty tore up,” Dean said, pointing at Sean Shatner’s tragically marred pectoral.

The stranger frowned down at his chest. “Aye, weel. I expect it willnae kill me.”

Dean squinted, leaning close enough to the man to smell the blood and gasoline and smoke on him. Dean let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty deep, buddy. You should come back to the motel with us so we can stitch it up.”

Shatner stared down at Dean, blue eyes skeptical and calculating, and he said nothing. He took up the long end of his kilt trailing behind him and pressed the wadded fabric to the wound with his left hand.

“I’m Dean, by the way.” Dean nodded at Sam. “That’s my brother Sam.”

“The Winchesters?” The big guy looked from Dean to Sam and back again.

“So you’ve heard of us?” Dean asked, licking his lips and feeling rather proud of himself.

“Aye, I kent ye. I thought ye died.”

“Well…” Dean began.

Sam jumped in. “Yeah, we did. Didn’t take.”

The Scot made some humming noise in the back of his throat, something combining understanding with skepticism and a touch of disinterest. “Jamie Fraser,” he said, offering his right hand to Dean.

Dean shook Jamie’s hand, noting that his ring finger was almost immobile, like it had been rebroken several times. This dude was no stranger to violence, that was for damn sure.

Jamie and Sam exchanged a nod, but didn’t shake hands. They faced each other with a guarded posture. Sam was likely off in his own little soulless world; Jamie was still sizing Sam up.

“Come on,” Sam said, stopping to pick up the empty gas cans. “Let’s go before someone sees the fire.”

A few miles down the road, Dean glanced at the rearview mirror to make sure Jamie’s gigantic headlights were still behind them. He and Sam passed the drive in relative quiet, the sound of the rough asphalt under Baby’s tires and her engine a soothing melody.

“I guess I’ll make myself scarce when we get back to the motel,” Sam said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the two-lane blacktop. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Sam shrugged. “Nothing. Just that I know it’s been a while. And I don’t sleep anyway.”

Something short-circuited in Dean’s brain. He actually heard static and it wasn’t the radio. He glared at Sam, who looked too damn pleased with himself. “Spit it out, Sam. A while for _what_ , exactly?”

“You stared at him through the entire fight. He saved your ass, Dean. And then you invited him back to our skeezy motel for ‘first aid.’”

Dean sputtered. “He did not save my ass, Sam.”

“So you _were_ staring at him.”

“The kilt was distracting, okay? So sue me,” Dean spat. “Besides, he couldn’t go to a hospital, you know that.”

Sam grunted something that sounded like the nonverbal equivalent of _Sure, whatever you say, Dean_ as they pulled into the motel parking lot. “Just put a sock on the door like usual.”

Dean parked the car and glared over at his brother. Stupid Sam and his stupid smug face.

His brother blinked back at him. “Wow, that’s some epic brooding. You definitely need to unwind, man,” Sam said and slid out of the car.

From an objective perspective, Dean could admit that the Fraser guy was attractive, sure. And a total badass. And yeah, okay, he had done Dean a solid by killing that vamp that had nearly overpowered him. And then another by helping Sam. And sure, Dean had offered to help him back at the motel. But that didn’t mean anything. The motel had lights and running water, and questionable motels were all part of the job. Freaking Sam.

Dean snagged the bag with their first aid kit from the back seat and followed Sam to their door. Jamie slid out of his truck, landing with a flourish of his kilt, that long end still pressed to his chest. Dean thought he looked a little pale under the buzzing security lights, but didn’t say anything about it to spare himself more of Sam’s teasing. Instead, he nodded after his brother and said, “Come on in.”

“Aye,” was all Jamie said, following him through the door, pausing by the hideous dresser that doubled as the room’s TV stand.

Sam went about the room turning all the lights on, getting as much illumination in the grubby room as they could. The room filled with yellow incandescence, Sam took the plastic ice bucket into the teeny bathroom with him and turned on the sink.

The nightstand held a decently bright lamp with a swivel arm, the best light in the room. At under fifty bucks a night, the room was devoid of seating beyond the two double beds and the toilet. Guess they were going to sit on the bed for this. Awesome. 

“Sit over there,” Dean said, gesturing to the bed and the reading lamp. Jamie nodded without a word and did as he was instructed, keeping pressure on his gash. “You holding up okay?”

“Aye, I’ll bide,” Jamie answered.

Sam returned with the bucket of ice water and a couple clean towels. He set the water on the nightstand, scooting the alarm clock out of the way, and tossed the towels on the bed next to Jamie. Circling around the bed again, Sam stood behind Jamie and raised his eyebrows till they vanished under his mop of blood spattered hair. He held up a quarter and gestured from it to Dean to Jamie to the little box that activated the magic fingers in the bed.

Dean glared daggers at his stupid brother and flipped him the bird where Jamie couldn’t see. Sam snorted and disappeared into the bathroom with a change of clothes and his toiletry bag, the door clicking shut behind him. _Bitch_ , he thought as loudly as he could in Sam’s general direction and unpacked the first aid kit.

Jamie winced as he pulled his wad of kilt away from his chest. Some of the fabric stuck to the wound and made a sticky, ripping sound as he pulled it away. He was definitely looking pale.

“How’re you doing there, Big Red?” Dean asked as he opened a bag of gauze. “Not gonna puke on me, are you? ‘Cause it’s just gonna get worse before it gets better.”

The gash was nasty and oozing blood. It was wide, deep enough to see muscle tissue. “Aye, I ken,” Jamie said through gritted teeth. He draped the long piece of kilt over his knee, the red and green cloth darkened and shiny with fresh blood.

Dean pulled on a pair of gloves and soaked a towel in the warm water. “We don’t have any painkillers, sorry.” The mattress springs gave a frankly excessive creak as Dean sat down next to Jamie.

Jamie shook his head and dug into that leather bag around his waist, coming out with a flask. “Nay bother,” he said, unscrewing the cap with one hand. “I brought my own.”

“Oh, well, that we do have,” Dean replied. “Think you can get that shirt off or should I cut it?”

Jamie took another long swig from the flask. “Nay, ye’d best cut it.” With a grunt of pained effort, Jamie tugged the end of his shirt free of the kilt. Dean realized that he’d taken off his sword belt, but Jamie was probably still plenty armed and dangerous without it.

The handle of the medical scissors gleamed from their sheath laid out on the ugly motel blanket. The steel was cool through his glove, Jamie’s shirt warm with body heat in the other. The scissors _snicked_ through the blood-soaked cotton. The air between them smelled of blood and burning flesh and sweat. Settling on top of all that was the enticing, peaty fragrance of decent scotch from Jamie’s open flask.

Dean became abruptly aware of how close they sat. Jamie’s bare knee pressed against Dean’s leg, and as he bent over his work, Jamie’s breath ghosted over Dean’s ear. He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a shiver. 

Each snip of the scissors brought more of Jamie into view. Dean liked to think he was in decent shape, for someone who’s only source of cardio was fighting for his life. But Jamie was ripped. And now that his tank top was split from top to bottom, it took considerable effort for Dean to keep his movements platonic and clinical. He wanted to slide his palms from that oddly tantalizing dip in the center of Jamie’s chest and push the shredded tank top off his shoulders with his bare hands.

_Damn it. Sam was right_. It had been a while. Not just his dry spell, which had long surpassed his previous personal record. But it had been a long-ass time since he’d touched another person in an intentionally intimate way. Something about Jamie was irresistibly magnetic and Dean’s fingers went clumsy as he struggled to lay the scissors on the bed.

Holding the cut ends of Jamie’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger, Dean eased the fabric apart. It stuck in a few places, and Jamie twitched as dried blood yanked on his chest hair.

Dean adjusted the angle of the lamp, finally had a good look at the gash. This was far from Jamie’s first scar. His chest and completely unfair sixpack displayed the jagged white lines of six or seven impressive old wounds. They might have been claws or blades, Dean couldn’t tell. His newest addition to the mosaic had been less than an inch away from taking off his right nipple. That would have been a tragedy, because as far as male nipples went, Jamie’s were definitely on the attractive side.

_Oh my God, what? Get it together, Winchester. Quick, say something casual._

“So I’ve gotta ask,” Dean said as Jamie slid his flask back into his leather fanny pack, or whatever it was called.

Jamie gave a grunt that sounded like permission.

Dean wrung a little of the water from the soaking towel, squeezing the rest over the wound to rinse out the largest bits of dirt and whatever else was stuck in there. Jamie sucked in a breath through his nose but kept his composure. “What exactly do you wear under a kilt?” He dipped the towel back in the water.

“That depends on how warm yer hands are, Dean.” Jamie raised an eyebrow at him. They stared at each other for a moment, while Dean debated showing him how warm his hands were. Or throwing himself into oncoming traffic.

But this was a minor medical emergency, first-aid-not-optional kind of situation, so Dean poured antiseptic wash onto a wad of gauze and kept cleaning. “Yeah, okay, I deserved that.” At least he had a good excuse for not looking back into fathomless blue eyes that were completely unreadable. “But how’s a guy like you end up in Podunk, Mississippi--by yourself--cleaning out a nest of vamps with a claymore?”

Jamie’s lips pressed together into a line as Dean swiped the gauze through the wound. “ _Claidheamh-mòr_ ,” he corrected, pronouncing it with way more than two syllables and capping it with an attractively rolled R. Dean found himself wondering what else that fluent tongue could do. “I’m a hunter, same as you. I could ask ye the same.”

Dean bobbed his head to the side, conceding the point. “Yeah, that’s fair.” He tossed the wad of gauze into the trash and took a cheap bottle of scotch from his duffel, passing it to Jamie. “Here. It sucks but you won’t care in a minute anyway.”

Jamie unscrewed the cap, sniffed the contents and made a face. With a glance at the suture needle Dean drew from a jar of alcohol, Jamie shrugged and upended the bottle for a healthy gulp. He grimaced. “Aye, ye didnae exaggerate. That tastes like a bog.”

“Yeah, well. Bottom’s u--okay,” Dean broke off. Jamie was not the kind of guy who needed to be told twice to drink for his own good. Every move they made caused the mattress springs to protest, an awful sound, oppressive in the otherwise quiet motel room. Jamie turned to better face Dean, folding one leg between them, his leather bag all that kept Dean from seeing _precisely_ what he did--or did not--have on under his kilt. The springs shrieked like sex and Dean tried his damnedest not to go down that mental rabbit hole.

The most difficult part of stitching up Jamie was keeping his hands and mind on task. The big guy took it like a champ, hardly flinching when Dean pinched the skin together and pierced it with the needle. Jamie made pained grunting noises in his throat, which had a lot in common with the mattress springs. Somewhere around the ninth suture, Sam emerged from the bathroom, snagged the keys from the dresser, and left the room altogether.

“Done,” Dean announced as he trimmed the end of the final stitch. There were seventeen in all.

Jamie’s shoulders slumped, leaning heavily on one arm on the bed. He looked like he would collapse, swaying from pain and fatigue and terrible scotch. Dean tidied away the first aid kit, shoving it all back into the bag and tossing his bloodied gloves into the trash. He kept an eye on Jamie as he did so, but the Scot had an impressive constitution.

“Here, let’s get that shirt the rest of the way off,” Dean said. Jamie nodded and struggled to work his arms free of the demolished tank top, careful to avoid popping sutures. “Can I help?” Dean asked.

Jamie nodded, turning his back to Dean with a cry of horny mattress springs. “Aye, if ye please,” he said.

As he slid the remains of the shirt off his shoulders, Dean’s fingertips brushed Jamie’s skin, which was clammy and bore a sheen of sweat and vamp blood and grime. He dropped the ruined garment into the trash, stole a glance at the expanse of newly bared flesh and froze.

Jamie’s back was a crisscrossed mass of scars, parallel slashes in groups of three or four covered the vast majority of his back.

“ _Cù sith_ ,” Jamie said, voice distant, haunted. “A fairy dog, near Loch Lomond.” He swallowed hard enough that Dean could hear it. Jamie stared off into the distance, his back still to Dean, affording them both some privacy. “Twas nay six months since...since my wife was killed. Twas November. An’ i’ twas freezing. I wouldnae lived an’ it been warm.”

There was a long pause, Dean having no idea what to say. He wanted to touch Jamie, give him some kind of reassurance or comfort, but he couldn’t, not now.

“ _Cù sith_ hunt in silence, ye ken. It felled me in the snow before I kent what it was.” Jamie took another pull from the bottle before handing it behind him to Dean.

Dean took a long swig. “Did you get it?”

Jamie nodded. “Aye.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, when did your wife die?” Dean asked in a whisper.

“Ten years ago,” he answered, glancing at the cheap alarm clock shoved to one side of the nightstand. Almost five in the morning. “Yesterday.” Jamie buried his face in hands and his broad shoulders shook, wracked with silent sobs.

The utter despair was palpable and tore at Dean’s guts. The loneliness and grief were living things, sinking their claws into Jamie and rending them both from stem to stern. Dean’s eyes burned to see this man with a warrior spirit so thoroughly broken. He knew some version of that loss himself. He knew the trapped feeling of an inability to go on combined with unwillingness to quit. There was blackness in Jamie’s heart, eating him alive, and Dean hated it, wanted to chase it away.

Dean did not pay attention to the racket the mattress made when he sat with his back to the wall. “Jamie,” he whispered, laying his hand on Jamie’s bare arm, featherlight at first, then more firmly. Jamie swayed back toward Dean, a subtle shift in his posture. Dean wrapped his hand around Jamie’s forearm, tugging gently.

Jamie came willingly, collapsing into an inexplicable heap with his face buried in Dean’s chest. He wrapped his arms around Dean’s torso, clinging to him. Dean met his embrace, his arms around Jamie’s shoulders. He held his breath and clenched his jaw to keep from weeping himself from the relief of Jamie’s touch.

“Okay,” Dean said, his hands tracing soothing circles on Jamie’s scarred back. Jamie now and then mumbled something unintelligible in a language that was not English. “It’s alright.”

They held tight to each other until Jamie’s sobs tapered off. “I’m sorry,” he said, beginning to gather himself to get up.

Dean tightened his grip on Jamie and shook his head. “Don’t be. I think maybe you don’t need to be alone right now. That sound about right?”

After a pause, Jamie nodded. “Aye.”

“That settles it then,” Dean replied. “You’re staying here.”

Jamie made a grunting sound of assent.

“And then this afternoon, we’ll talk about how we can help each other. Okay?

“Aye,” Jamie agreed, pulling that long bit of his kilt over his shoulders and spreading it over Dean as well, like a blanket. It really was a handy garment.

Dean didn’t really think about doing it, but he found himself running his fingers through Jamie’s fiery red hair. The unruly curls of it fell into a silky pile under his touch. As abruptly as Dean had found himself comforting the crazy berserker with the broadsword, Jamie’s breathing had slowed into gentle snores. The peaceful rhythm dragged Dean into sleep along with him.

Later. They’d talk later. For now though, they could hold each other, their shared embrace salve to their wounded spirits.


End file.
